


Well, why the hell can’t I run off and join the circus?

by Islanderlass



Series: Jokers to the left of me, clowns to the right [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Annnnd we're definitely not in Kansas any more, Because Fred, F/M, Funny but also Sad, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, I laughed so hard while I wrote this, In case you really need it spelled out, Molly's got a plan, Please read first fic in the series, Slice of Life, but don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 04:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17891621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Islanderlass/pseuds/Islanderlass
Summary: Molly talks to the dead, hugs the living, and pranks George.





	Well, why the hell can’t I run off and join the circus?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so damn proud of this one. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed the writing part!

It started—like so many of Molly’s plots—as a result of Molly loathing to let go. Oh, yes, Molly Prewett Weasley had a real problem with hoarding. She hoarded yarn, wood, paint, tools, and fabric. She never could bear to throw out anything remotely useful, and so—well she never did! 

 

“You know your father, dear,” she sighed. “He’ll ask me what, exactly, I plan to do with them, and so I begged Auntie to let me keep them out in her barn, just until I figure out how to fix them. She’s giving me until July 1st, and then she says she’ll turn the whole lot into firewood.” Molly carefully disentangled the fairy lights from the ragged, soggy bough she held. She gingerly tossed the bough into the trash heap after stowing the lights in their box.

 

She continued, “They’re not worth much, of course. Old, even when my darling father bought ‘em. Aunt Muriel said he planned to fix the wagons up, you know, in case someday I’d see the light, and let your Dad pack me and Billy up to go after his family.” She sighed sadly. “Oh, dear, look, your Christmas crackers have gotten all wet. Ruined! I’m so sorry.”

 

Fred Weasley, of course, didn’t answer. He never answered, these days, because—well, Molly knew her boy wasn’t really there, of course, not six feet under. No, that was just his earthly remains. But Molly, of course, hoarded people too. She hoarded people most of all, in fact. She’d hoarded her brothers, and parents, and Arthur, and their babies, even after some of them had died. Muriel asking her tartly when she planned to clear out the rubbish in the barn—well, that had brought a whole host of memories up, hadn’t it?

 

“You see, Fred,” she said sadly, “Arthur never meant to marry me. Just couldn’t hurt me! And—and I cost him his kin, love. His livelihood. We should’ve ran off with the circus, all those years ago.” Her lips trembled. “And Papa—I thought, maybe, he wanted us to stay when he left us the Burrow. But—But—now I know I’m wrong. He always thought I’d see how I hurt Artie, Fred. He always believed I’d do the right thing!”

 

She sniffled and propped Ronnie’s Teddy Bear up on top of the gravestone where he’d left it. She wondered, once again, why the silly boy always transfigured it into a spider. He’d been so petrified of them when he was little, of course.

 

“Maybe it’s too late now to fix things,” Molly frowned. “But—do you know, there was a box right there in the doorway of the larger circus caravan. With a note from Cedrella and Sept! It said that if we ever changed our minds—that if we ever desired to seek them out—all we had to do was fix up our own wagons and write to let them know we were coming.”

She wiped her hands on her apron, and stuffed her cold fingers into her coat pockets. “That box is filled with magic, Freddy,” she said. “You’d love it, you would. Notes, all from Weasleys, going back years. Magic that’ll make those wagons into a home, magic that will make that home fly. Just imagine, son, an entire circus, flying overhead, Muggles none the wiser. Lions, tigers, oh my! But of course, it’s impossible. Arthur—he was just promoted to DetCon. We—we have a good life.” 

 

She then snorted and spat on the ground. “Circe’s saggy tits— things are really bad, you know, when I cannot even make myself believe that. Fleur’s gone back to France, see! Bill hates his job, the babies hate their fame, and—and—Arthur is never home, love. He wants to do me proud, he says. Well, I’d be just as proud if he was out in the ring, scolding one of his beloved cats. Oh, I know you kids never thought he liked pets, but—it’s just that he always thought house cats and owls were so tame, after that tiger he loved so.”

 

She pulled out her wand and vanished the rubbish heap. “Imagine if I told him I wanted to pack it all up—the clock, the kettle, and the kids—and run off to join the Whirling Dervishes of Devon. He’d probably have me committed! Muriel would throw a fit, of course, if she knew what I was thinking. I’d have to do it all in secret, I think—trick them. Prank them! Freddy, you’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

 

Still no answer, although she had the oddest feeling that she was being watched. She shrugged that off—surely it was just her imagination getting to her, being alone in the cemetery on a blustery Boxing Day. “I could, of course, pull it off,” she said. “I know, dear, you never thought much of your silly old Mum. But I can be right sneaky when I want! It’s just such a big job, love. If you were here, well, I’d bully you into helping. Gods know you and our George owe me for raising you.”

 

She stared moodily at the fog enrobed trees in the distance. “Not, of course, that I wouldn’t do it all over again in a heartbeat. You were so clever, my boy, and—such a Weasley. I wonder if, had I raised you up like a proper one, you’d be a lion tamer like your father, or an acrobat, like your aunt. I always thought the Circus was dangerous, you know—but far better to go out like a Weasley, doing what you love, than go out like a Prewett—murdered for what you believe in.” 

 

She abruptly shook herself. “Look at me, all maudlin! Frederick Weasley, if you could see me now. Well, you’d tell me to get it together, old girl, because Weasleys never let life get them down. This is why I talk to you, Fred. Because Aunt Muriel, God bless her, will just tell me no. No, I can’t play with the carnie kids. No, I can’t ride an elephant. No, no, no. I can’t ever be a Weasley.”

 

She stood tall and scowled defiantly. “Well, why the hell can’t I run off and join the circus?”

 

“Why the hell not, indeed,” boomed a man’s voice behind her. She clutched her wand and whirled around. Two older men—Septimus Weasley and his brother Stephen Weasley— stood watching her. “Is—is that really you? Sept? Uncle Steve?”

 

“I would hope so,” said Steve. “Can’t imagine anyone would want to walk around looking as hideous as old Sept, here.” He chuckled as Molly knocked the wind out of Sept with a hug, then did the same to him.

 

“Oh! I’m so happy to see you both! Does Artie know?” Molly wiped her eyes.

 

“No,” said Sept. “Tracking spell on that box in your pocket, love. Woke me up, a few nights ago. I’d nearly forgotten all about it, and so I was curious to see who’d been poking around. You want some help with those wagons? We can sleep rough for a few weeks, and fix ‘em up enough so that you an’ whoever might come along can outfit them to your liking.”

 

“You—you’d do that? After everything I’ve done?”

 

“Margaret Weasley,” said Steve, annoyed. “After what you’ve done? You’ve only loved our little imp, and brought seven Weasleys into the world.” He rubbed the back of his head and scowled at her. Charlie had always reminded her so much of his great uncle—Steve Weasley had the same stocky build and love of animals, although, of course, he preferred his horses over reptiles of any kind.

 

“I kept Artie from you!”

 

“Artie kept Artie from us,” said Sept. He was the taller, and more debonair of the brothers. He gestured flamboyantly at the grave of the grandson he’d never meet. “This one here—tell me, could’ve you told him to stay home? Or stay away? Because none of my lot ever listened to me, not when they knew I was dead wrong. And I was wrong about you, girl. You’re a Weasley if I ever saw one.”

 

“Thanks, Sept,” said Molly shyly. “Well—Muriel is more ornery than ever, and she probably won’t be very happy when you show up.”

 

“That’s ‘alf the fun, annoying the old broad,” said Steve. “Lead the way, Miss Margaret.”

 

Three weeks later, she walked slowly through the wagons. “Oh, Sept—how’d you and Uncle do all this?” Rotting would had been replaced with all new, carvings had been repaired, hinges had been oiled, and the larger wagon had nearly as many rooms as the Burrow, all with freshly painted white walls and varnished wood throughout

 

“We’ve patched up a few wagons in our day,” said Sept drily. 

 

“Besides, he made the mistake of telling Cedrella where we were,” said Steve. “Whole mess of them showed up, much to Muriel’s absolute fury. She may bea might difficult to live with for a bit. Sorry, kid.”

 

Molly’s face fell. “Why didn’t they stay? Didn’t they want to meet everyone?”

 

“Course,” said Sept, startled. “But I told ‘em you were pranking Artie, and they quite liked the idea. Weasleys, y’know.”

 

“Oh!”

 

“We just barely managed to save the decorating for you,” said Steve cheerfully. “And it was a close call. If they’d stayed one more day, well, I think you might’ve walked into find a very different scene. Now, you’re sure you can handle the rest? Don’t forget you’re running off to join a circus, not a convent. We like color, and gilt, and weird, wacky sights.”

 

“Don’t listen to him,” Sept said. “Not all of us want our bedrooms to look like a sheikh’s desert palace, and no one else has a bloody albino cobra stuffed and mounted in their kitchen.”

 

Molly smiled slowly. “Oh, don’t worry. It’ll be decked out to impress even the most eccentric of Weasleys. I know just who I’m going to ask to help me, you see.”

 

* * *

 

“No,” said George flatly. 

 

“But George!” Molly had cornered him when he’d come home from the shop for lunch. “It’s for your father’s birthday gift!”

 

“Dad’s birthday was last week,” said George. 

 

“Yes, and I told him he’d get his gift in the summer,” she said heatedly. “I need your help, George! You know about bright colors, and quirky spells, and sparkles!”

 

“Sparkles,” he said dubiously, “for Dad? Have you completely gone off your head, woman?”

 

“George!”

 

“Look, if it’s that important to you, make it worth my while,” said George. “I make money, y’know, for that kind of thing. Why would anyone buy the cow if I gave away the dung for free?”

 

“Milk, George!”

 

“I was born a bull calf, Mother, not a heifer. You were there, you ought to know!”

 

“All right,” Molly said briskly.”You and your brother always liked to bargain, and right now, George, I need both your creativity and muscles. I’ll allow you to choose what you wish for Fred’s memorial. Something that I will hang in my kitchen, so I can see it everyday. Something that would make him giggle, every time he passed by it. Think of it, if you like, as his last great prank. In return, you will do your utmost best to help me with your father’s birthday gift.”

 

George tilted his head and considered her silently for a long minute. She stared at him levelly, fighting the urge to look away. Heaven only knew what her boy might choose! She knew that even showing a willingness to negotiate with the twins was a mistake; one had to hold firm, or risk being trampled upon. But—it seemed only right to allow George to choose the item, and this way, she might gain his goodwill by offering him something she’d give him anyway. She’d often done such things when they’d been children—she might have a hankering for ice cream, say, and then convinced them it would be a great sacrifice on her part if she took time away from weeding the garden to go to Fortescue’s. Voila—eager assistants utterly convinced they were getting the better end of the deal.

 

“Well, I can think of one such object,” said George finally. “But—no, never mind, you’d never go for it.” He sighed wistfully. “A pity, really. If Fred had any regrets—well, surely the lack of such an item must have been right at the top of the list. We’d always wanted to acquire one for the Burrow, y’see.”

 

Molly kept her face impassive, but inside she was giggling like a maniac. Her boy clearly had come up with something so outlandish—so absurd—that he thought she’d fold, just like that. You’d think after two decades of being her son, he’d realize that Molly Prewett Weasley didn’t admit defeat so easily. “George, dear, I know that perhaps I haven’t always supported you and your brother’s more wild schemes, but I would never want my children to go on to the next adventure with regrets about this life. Do tell me!”

 

“Well…”

 

“Please?”

 

“I just don’t know,” said George. “For one thing—You’d have to acquire it yourself to really get into the spirit of things—I mean, Fred would’ve found that hilarious. It’s not difficult, of course—we could’ve done it second year, easily, but we chose to behave ourselves. For the sake of your nerves, of course.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Well, and our ears of course. Your howlers, woman—I swear, my rightear just leapt off my head at the prospect of never having to listen to one again.”

 

Molly narrowed her eyes. The brat! “So kind of you to think of me,” she said. “Well—I’m sure I can manage, dear.”

 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. It’s just slightly illegal, that’s all. Surely you’d not be able to live with yourself, and just think of what Dad might go through at work if you got caught.”

 

Molly examined her nails. “Oh, I’m not concerned about that,” she said airily. “If we finish this project, he’ll be retiring anyway.”

 

George narrowed his eyes. “But he just got promoted to DetCon,” he objected. “It’s everything you and he ever wanted.”

 

“No, dear. All I ever wanted was for him to be happy! Your father never really wanted to work at the Ministry, but he’s the sort of man who won’t run away—ever. He will, however, run towards something, given the proper motivation.” 

 

“He never wanted to work at the ministry? Then what did he want to do?”

 

“Travel.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Oh, you know—here, there, everywhere!”

 

“All right,” he said slowly. “You clearly are plotting something, something big. What is it?”

 

“I’m not telling you, unless you help me,” said Molly smugly. “And you won’t help me, until I give you what you want. Well?”

 

“The item I want you to hang on the kitchen wall—in a place of pride, mind, just like the Clock is…” George paused for dramatic effect and struck a theatrical pose. “A Hogwarts toilet seat!”

 

“Oh, is that all?” Molly grinned wickedly. “I thought you were going to ask for something much worse! Deal!” She kissed both his cheeks and bustled over to the coat rack as George gaped at her.

 

“But—But—it’s unhygienic!” He sputtered.

 

“Really, dear, I’ll clean it before I hang it up,” she said brightly, shrugging her coat on.

 

“But it’s illegal! It’s school property.”

 

“It’s a toilet seat; I’m sure Hogwarts does occasionally replace those,” she said. She jammed her woolen hat over her curls. “Now, don’t you go telling anyone where I am, dear—I’d never want to implicate you in such a sordid affair.”

 

He shook his head. “No one would ever believe me, anyway,” he moaned. “It has to be authentic, mother o’mine!. One of the ones with the ornate coat of arms, now.”

 

“Fine,” Molly said. “But you’d best hold up your end of our agreement, young man. No welshing!” She shook her finger at him.

 

“I would never.” George bristled. “Um, Mum?” He asked, suddenly sounding unsure.

 

She, paused, her hand in the floo jar, and turned to look over her shoulder. “Yes, George?”

 

“Be careful,” he said lamely. “Filch is still out and about, and he’s quicker than you’d expect.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

“No—when you and Dad go traveling—can I come along? I—look, I’m right sick of this place, and I’d miss you both like mad.”

 

She blinked back unexpected tears Just imagine! One of her precious, oh so independent, babies—admitting he'd miss her! Arthur would never believe it! “Well—naturally. But you should know that we’re leaving for good, if I have my way. We’re packing up the kettle, and the Clock, and that toilet seat, and going on an adventure, darling. What about the Wheezes?”

 

“I can do that anywhere,” he said. “And I reckon, if this project is as important enough for you to hang a toilet seat in your kitchen—it’s important enough for me to take it on full time.”

 

“The project is very important,” she agreed. “But—family is more important, and you and your brother are the only reason I’d even consider doing such a thing.” She turned resolutely towards the fireplace, and tossed a handful of floo powder into the flames. “Three Broomsticks!”

 

Once there, she hurried up to the castle. She knew Minerva would be in the Headmistress’ office, because the other woman had moaned that she would need to spend all weekend sorting out paperwork for the new cauldrons needed due to a first year explosion right before Christmas. Sure enough, the gargoyle eagerly leapt aside, allowing her entrance. 

 

“Minerva, dear, I do hope I’m not interrupting,” Molly said as the women hugged each other.

 

“Goodness, no,” said Minerva. “You’re my savior, indeed—I’ve been hard at work since seven this morning. Please, have a seat, and I’ll send for some tea.” She tapped her wand on the miniature castle atop her desk. “Kitchen—tea and biscuits for two, please!”

 

A tea service and platter of snacks popped into sight as the woman settled into their chairs. After both had selected their refreshments, Minerva said, “Now, is this social, or business of some sort, Molly?”

 

“Personal,” said Molly. “And I would prefer it to stay just between us girls.”

 

“Of course,” said Minerva, surprised. “May I ask why?”

 

“I’m pranking George,” Molly said. “He thinks, you see, that the only way I can fulfill his request for Fred’s memorial is to sneak through the castle and risk punishment—or worse, failure. Children are so gullible, Minerva, and it never seems to occur to them that sometimes, the greatest mischief is accomplished legally, simply by being brazen enough to ask.”

 

Minerva threw her head back, cackling. “Oh, Molly, you are definitely brazen enough! I love it, lass, and I s’pose I owe that particular lad a dose of his own medicine. What do you need from here?”

 

“A genuine, unaltered, Hogwarts toilet seat,” said Molly, giggling. “The older ones, with that ridiculous gold coat of arms embossed right on it. The twins, you see, always threatened to send one to our Ginny, before she entered school, and they never did. I need George’s help with a project, and so I told him I’d let him pick something to hang on m’kitchen wall, in memory of Fred…”

 

“And he picked something he thought you’d never approve,” Minerva said, her eyes alight with vindictive amusement. “Well, I’ll give ye your toilet seat, on the condition that ye tell me the whole story, in the end.”

 

“I can, but only in letters if you don’t wish to travel,” Molly said. “The rest don’t know, dear, but—We’ll be leaving the British Isles, come summer, and reuniting with Arthur’s blood. I’ve no plans to return, Minerva. I’ll miss you, and everyone else so, but it’s past time for us to go.”

 

Minerva nodded. “So it’s the Circus ye’ll be chasing,” she said. “Well. Then. Summer, you say?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can ye wait until June sixteenth?”

 

“Of course,” said Molly. “I’m thinking the first of July, anyways. But why?”

 

“Because I owe it to my colleagues and my children to see Commencement through,” she said. “But Hagrid and I feel just like you. Filius has already notified me of his intention to leave, Madam Sprout has decided to open up her own florist shop, and you know both Pomfrey and Pince retired last year. We’re old dogs, Molly, and it’s time for this place to see new blood. Would you object to us joining you?”

 

“Not at all,” said Molly. “Oh! Dear! Truly?” When Minerva nodded, Molly hurried around the desk and bent down to squeeze the Scottish woman tightly. “Oh! Minerva! We’ll have such fun!”

 

“I’ve always had a streak of the performer in me,” Minerva said. “Comes with being a teacher, you know. And Hagrid—well, what better place for him than a circus? I’ve even got an absurd caravan wagon that’ll be just the ticket, and the governors want us to get rid of the poor thestrals. Says they’re too disturbing now that so many can see them. How do you plan to travel?”

 

“A flying Wagon,” said Molly. “I hadn’t quite figured out the logistics yet—I was thinking of acquiring Abraxans—but Thestrals, now, there’s an idea—so they like to pull wagons?”

 

“Oh, yes. And this way, dear, we can get Hagrid to show us how to drive the wagons without him knowing a thing about our true plans. You know him—he just can’t help himself.”

 

 

“So true,” said Molly ruefully. “So! I don’t wish to hurry you, Minerva, but I simply can’t wait to come through the floo and see the look on our George’s face when he sees me with that toilet seat. May we?”

“Oh, of course.” The two women raced down the staircase, giggling like schoolgirls. Mischief awaited!

* * *

 

George, of course, was nonchalantly eating chocolate pudding at the kitchen table when she returned. 

 

“Well?” He asked expectantly. “Let’s see it, Mum. Now, there’s now shame, of course, in not getting it on your first try. You are, after all, a beginner at this, and getting on in the years.”

 

She huffed and upended her satchel onto the table. He gaped as a toilet seat—plus hundreds of receipts, dozens of lipsticks, and no few dinner mints joined a genuine, Victorian era Hogwarts toilet seat atop the beaten up wood top. 

 

“Well?” She folded her arms. “Let’s hear it, Georgie.”

 

“Mum, you are a goddess among mothers,” her son breathed. He picked her up in his arms and swung her around. “You devil! What will Dad say?”

 

“Let’s wash it, hang it up, and see if he even notices.” Molly grinned so widely her cheeks hurt. “So, you’ll help me with his birthday gift.”

 

“Oh, Mum—wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” he exclaimed. “When do you want to start?”

 

“Tomorrow,” Molly said. “It’s a big job, George. And we’ll need to scramble a bit to have it done by June.”

 

“We’re Weasleys,” said her son. “We can do anything we dream up, as long as we do it together.”

* * *

 

That night, Arthur Weasley carefully looked around the dinner table at his family. Something was clearly going on—no one would meet his eyes, and every single one of them were grinning like loons.

 

“Molly?”

 

“What, darling?”

 

“Do I have something on m’face by chance? Or perhaps someone has stuck an amusing sign to my back?” His children choked back laughter.

 

“No, honey, whatever would make you think that?” She bustled over to refill his stew.

 

“Never mind,” he mumbled. Then something quite bizarre caught his eye.

 

“Molly?”

 

“Yes, love?”

 

“Is that a Hogwarts toilet seat on the wall?”

 

“Is it, Pumpkin?” 

 

Ron choked on his soup; Bill rolled his eyes and slapped his brother on his back. “Really, Mum?”

 

“I’m merely ascertaining that your father doesn’t need his vision checked,” Molly said.

 

“It is a Hogwarts seat, then. Mollywobbles—Why, exactly, do we have one up on our kitchen wall?”

 

“It’s what our Fred would have wanted, sweetie.”

 

“Mm-hm. Harry, Ronald, if I find out you’ve been mucking about with the Resurrection Stone—“

 

“No,” burst out Ron. “We’d never!”

 

“Well, then. Who, exactly, did this on Fred’s behalf?” Arthur demanded. “George?”

 

“No,” said George. 

 

“Charles?

 

“What do you take me for?” Exclaimed his second son.

 

“Bill, I swear to Merlin, you’re never too old to be turned over m’knee.”

 

“Gee, Dad. I’m simply overwhelmed by your faith in me.”

 

“Oh, shut up. That leaves Ginny and Percy. Now, Percy and I were at work today. So, that leaves you, young lady, because Hermione is far too fond of Minerva. What do you have to say for yourself, hm?”

 

“It wasn’t me,” said Ginny sharply. “It was Mum.”

 

“Oh?” Arthur got up and went to stand beside his wife. “Molly? That true?”

 

“Yes,” said Molly, tossing her curls. 

 

“Molly, Molly, Molly. What ever will I do with you?” Arthur said sternly.

 

“Well, sir,” she fluttered her eyelashes, “I’ve heard one can never be too old to be turned over your knee.”

 

“Mum!” Shrieked the children.

 

Arthur whooped with laughter. “Would Molly the Magnificent stoop to escorting a simple rube like me out to dinner?”

 

“We’ve already had a perfectly good stew,” said Molly. “But I suppose, perhaps, I might allow you to buy everyone Fortescue’s. When I finish the dishes, of course—and dear me, that might not be for awhile, I’m just not as young as I used to be—“

 

“You just sit there and rest, Mum,” said Bill. “We’ll take care of clean-up, won’t we, kids?”

 

The others nodded fervently and gathered up the plates and utensils. Only Arthur saw Molly hastily smother a smirk. He stooped down to whisper, “Molly: One Trillion and three. Brats: seven.”

 

She tapped him reprovingly on the nose. “Geroge thinks it’s eight, dear, don’t give away m’game.”

 


End file.
